Mycroft's Darkest Secret
by Bryn T. Wedge
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is depressed. He's stuck in a job he was given to protect his family; but after said job is the reason he almost loses Sherlock, the only thing keeping him going, he's decided he's had enough. History behind Mycroft's secret in the "Paths We Walk Together" Series, specifically Part IV.
1. Work

Mycroft was tired. Sleep never came easy, and when it did, it didn't help abate the feeling. He felt like he was just floating through life, never really stopping in place. He had no real direction, just an abstract concept of purpose dragging him forward. Life had seemed to go from bad to worse.

He'd hoped that when Eurus was sent away, thing would improve. Life with Eurus in the mix had gotten increasingly difficult for Mycroft. He'd always been stressed at keeping an eye on them both all the while attempting to complete his studies.

He certainly never expected to be the sole secret keeper of Eurus' existence. Sherlock had rewritten over the memories of his friend out of trauma, and he'd been subtly assisted along the way by Mycroft. He believed it was better that way… and if he was honest with himself, he'd hoped that he'd have his old little brother back. But Sherlock was forever changed. Even when Mycroft had helped Sherlock forget Eurus all together, Sherlock remained the same cold and distant child. It wasn't like he was particularly warm beforehand, but at least he expressed himself.

Mycroft's fear, that by repressing all of his emotions Sherlock would become incapable of handling them, was soon realised. He'd done all he could to help his brother cope, but as soon as the self destructive behaviour began, he'd changed tactic. He'd tried to get his brother to detach from emotion all together. He'd certainly had some success in that. But it wasn't enough.

And so here he was, stuck in a job he'd not had a say in choosing, protecting his family the only way he could. He'd make secret visits to Eurus, and help make sure that Sherrinford was secure… and then have to return home and face his parents' grief over her loss (which, thankfully, had faded into the past by now) and Sherlock's tentative forgotten memories. He made sure to regularly check up on Sherlock, to see if he'd started to remember - he knew that it was only a matter of time before those repressed and altered memories came back in full. And then there'd be hell to pay.

If he was honest, he didn't like keeping secrets. He didn't know how to handle the guilt of knowing things he couldn't share with others…those he cared about… especially if that information would ease their suffering. His uncle, or sometimes aunt depending on the day, had headlined the 'Eurus died in a fire' project. Mycroft really only had to maintain the secret. It was a terrible burden, but he stood strong to do it. Sherlock needed him to. And it was, really, kinder to his parents. They would never be able to understand or cope with the monster she'd become. Luckily they'd been agreeable to hiding mention of Eurus' existence for Sherlock's sake.

But it all was just so… tiring. He isolated himself away most of the day, and barely had interactions with anyone. He did as he was told, without question. It wasn't so that he wouldn't seen as being insubordinate… no. No, he'd once asked questions about his actions, and learned far too much. Since then, since realising the huge impact on human life he was so casually asked to perform in his duties, he'd been afraid to ask. He couldn't cope with knowing just what was happening. He knew that one day he would, and perhaps having the control over the options might help… but those days were not close in the future. If at all.

It frustrated him that he was used just as a clever pawn in someone's game. He never knew the whole story, which angered him, and never knew who he was really working for, which unsettled him. He was employed to help maintain Britain's interests, but he found it overwhelmingly aggravating that he was expected to do so flawlessly without all the information.

All in all, the pressure was huge, and the ability to do the right thing minute.

And then there was his brother. Sherlock. He'd continued in his self destructive behaviour, now engrossed in drugs. Mycroft had promised that he'd always be there to help, but his job was making that difficult. He'd be sent away at a moment's notice, or hidden away in a dungeon for days at a time. Originally his job was supposed to be a means to look after Sherlock. He'd have access to security footage, to unique resources of information, and be able to call in the cavalry much quicker. Speaking of cavalry, his position had been of use to get Sherlock out of some particular nasty situations with the law, at least.

Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. Nothing he did seemed to help. He'd tried to get Sherlock into rehab multiple times… but as everyone knows, unless they're willing to be there, it's not helpful. Mycroft would force his brother to go anyway, even if just to have eyes on him. But it wasn't helping. Mycroft was beginning to feel at the end of his rope with it all… there didn't seem to be a solution in sight. And the more he tried, the more his brother pushed him away in resentment. That hurt more than he'd thought it could. But he remained vigil, for even if he'd suffer doing so, he'd aways be there for his baby brother.

His stomach churned uncomfortably. He'd been trapped in at work, in the dark dungeon they called an office, for almost three days. The work they'd assigned him was almost complete, and he had a large stack of paper on the desk in front of him ready to be delivered to his superiors.

He assumed it was important work. It seemed to involve some rather important things, but as usual, the purpose of his work had been omitted. But Mycroft had just knuckled down and tried to get it all done as soon as possible. He'd not seen anyone else in the entire time he'd been down there. No one came in to give him updates on his brother. He'd let his colleagues and subordinates know he'd been worried about Sherlock, and that someone should keep an eye on him since he wasn't in a good place. He just hoped that everything was alright.

Mycroft shoved yet another piece of paper on to the 'complete' pile. He was even beginning to long for his cold and dreary flat. It usually upset him, being so dark and empty, but after days of sitting at that desk, the bed was sounding enticing. He just… he didn't want to live like this anymore.

But there wasn't another way out. He couldn't just stop being caretaker of his little brother. He couldn't just walk away from this job. Where would he go, even if he did? He didn't have any desires or passions to pursue. This life was all he'd known, and even if he was sick of it, he was still needed there.

He heard his old boss's voice ring through his mind.  
 _'You care too much, Holmes. That'll get you killed one day'._

He sighed. He did care too much. The people he worked for were like statues, or machines, silently carrying out their tasks without thought or care of the damage they were causing. Whereas Mycroft obviously did care about what he was doing. He cared for his brother's safety, no matter how many times he was told to 'squash out that weakness'. And he always wanted to get the best outcome possible for the people his work involved… even if that meant making some hard decisions himself.

It was indeed burdensome. But he couldn't just not care. He was managing well to pretend, to put on a mask of disinterest… but it was merely an icy exterior to manage the day to day. And he hated that it was necessary, and that it was becoming more and more natural for him.

His mind wandered further while he finished up some details on the paper before him. Thoughts of his self hatred, the rage he felt against himself for his weight, the worthlessness he felt. He always managed to rebuke that last thought, saying that he wasn't worthless… he was needed for Sherlock. He knew he was clinically depressed, the signs were all there… but he also knew it mattered little. He couldn't stop doing the things that wore him down. He couldn't change to improve his life. He couldn't just stop living either, not while someone needed him. So there wasn't anything to be done. He'd accepted that he'd always be alone, despite yearning for companionship. It still hurt to be alone though… just not as much as it had after his failed relationship.

Mycroft smiled softly at the thought of his boyfriend when he was sixteen. He was a dashing young lad from Scotland. Bright, happy, and full of lust for life. He always wanted to be a surgeon. And he'd managed it. Mycroft had kept up to date on his achievements… it wasn't spying, he told himself, no… just a casual passing interest with access to secret government files. Mycroft had been happy then. Having someone to share his life with seemed to make the pain go away. But things had ended, as they always did, when he had to get involved with the secret service.

There… the last file. Just one more to go, Mycroft thought to himself. He was almost beginning to miss being sent out into the field. He hated that with a burning ferocity… but his superiors cared little for it, as long as he did the job. He sneered to himself.  
 _Sometimes I think they wish they could just employ machines._

Groaning, Mycroft put the last file on the pile before him. He stood, stretched, and then took the large stack in his arms. The door opened from a retina scan, luckily, so he didn't have to let go of the papers to get out of the room. He put the papers on his boss's desk without waiting for confirmation, and left before he could be ordered to do more work.


	2. Home Life

He trudged up the stairs to his flat. He made more than enough money to afford a quite decent house… but he saw little point. He might have a love of upper class things, but he rarely partook in his joy. He couldn't deny that it was of little importance to have an exuberant house filled with expensive trinkets when he was barely ever there. He did allow himself to wear expensive suits, however. He'd always had a love of fashionable attire, and couldn't say no to a nice three-piece suit. Even if he looked a little out of place around his colleagues, he didn't care. It was the one concession to the life he'd prefer to be leading that he allowed himself.

His phone had no new messages from Sherlock. He called his number, but there was no response. Panic stabbed him in the gut, and he called again. Mycroft told himself that he had people at work to let him know if Sherlock had been acting up or was in trouble, so it couldn't be as bad as he feared. He released the breath he was holding when he heard the grumble on the other line that was his brother.

"Go away Mycroft."  
"Hello to you too, brother."  
"I mean it."  
"Sherlock… I am only calling to check in with you."  
"I know, and I don't want you to. Just leave me alone."  
"But you're my brother, I can't do that."

Mycroft sighed. He wished Sherlock enjoyed having him around. But he couldn't let his brother know that he was the only thing keeping him going right now… that would put just too much pressure on the boy's shoulders. He didn't cope with pressure or burden very well. And Mycroft knew exactly what it was like to be shovelled burden unwillingly and feel compelled to just deal with it.

"You're not helping anything, Mycroft. And I don't need you anymore. I have Lestrade now. He lets me help with cases. Sure, I wish he would just take my word for it, but no matter. I have a purpose."  
"As happy as I am for you with that, dear brother, I know that the kind detective will not permit you to help him while you are high."  
"I know that!" Sherlock spat back into the phone loudly, causing Mycroft to flinch.  
"Sherlock…"  
"I'm clean! I AM trying, you know."

Mycroft suddenly connected Sherlock's jittery voice and extra attitude with withdrawal. He was honestly impressed. And, a little upset with himself. But he shook his head and returned to focusing on Sherlock.

"I am proud of you, Sherlock."  
"Now, will you leave me alone?"  
"I promised I would always watch over you, you know."  
"I don't care, I don't want you. You're pointless. Let me just live my life!" Sherlock growled, and Mycroft exhaled in hurt. He knew his brother was just being particularly nasty because of withdrawal, but it didn't stop it hurting.  
"I trust you to try turn your life around now that you have Lestrade to occupy yourself, but I won't stop worrying over you."  
"Fine. As long as you stop interfering."

Sherlock hung up, and Mycroft took a deep breath. He tried to get a grip of his emotions, but the exhaustion won out and a tear ran down his cheek. It was getting more and more difficult to face the fact that Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him. He knew he should be happy that his brother was trying, but he couldn't. Not when it stripped him of the only reason he had to keep going with his pointless life. He just couldn't feel happy about anything. And he worried that Sherlock wasn't doing it right and would relapse… hard.

Mycroft curled up in bed. He normally had trouble sleeping, but after working for so long and so hard over the past few days with little sleep, he was glad that the darkness descended over him quickly. He dreamed of his first meeting with Sherlock's new 'friend', Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

 _Mycroft stood stiff and intimidating as usual, despite the deep attraction he was hit with the moment the man stepped out of the car. He was only a couple years older than Mycroft, but with dazzling silver hair. Mycroft squashed the thoughts creeping into his head. They were inappropriate. The man was engaged, Sherlock's friend or even potential saviour, and Mycroft knew he was unattractive and worthless as a companion._

 _Mycroft could tell instantly that the detective had a kind heart, and so hadn't expected to almost be hit for bribery. Well, it could have had something to do with the less-than-favourable information he'd prattled off. It didn't matter really, since he'd gotten the confirmation that he needed that Lestrade could be trusted with his brother. He was a good man, and possibly exactly what Sherlock needed._

When Mycroft woke, he let himself stay in bed for a while longer to reminisce over the dream. He did feel grateful that he had someone else to take care of Sherlock, even if he was a little hurt that he himself wasn't enough for his little brother. He grabbed his phone, in case of messages from Sherlock. There was nothing. He sighed and let himself lie in a little longer.

He didn't have work today, since he'd completed his task so quickly. But he knew that he'd probably go in later on anyway. He couldn't face being alone with nothing to do in his empty flat. He desperately needed to keep himself distracted. It was the only thing getting him by day to day to escape the feelings and unwelcome thoughts he was having. He of course couldn't seek help for it, or tell anyone … that would ruin his job, and even though he hated doing it… it was the only life he'd known and couldn't bear to think of doing anything else. Just the idea of such a change in his life made him sick to the stomach. No… he'd just wither it out at his job, for Sherlock.

He got up, showered, dressed in his usual attire - even if he wasn't going into work, he still wanted to wear his suit. He liked it, it made him feel comfortable. Like he was important and had a purpose. In actuality he was important - he was in charge of a lot of people, and despite working under some seriously powerful people, he had a lot of power already in his own right. He usually just took it for granted and focused on not having total control of everything. And Mycroft really did like control. He always had. If he wasn't in control of something, it made him feel anxious. Mostly because when it was out of his control, it would always end up going wrong somehow.

Just as he was eating some fruit and oats for breakfast, his phone rang. Work. There was apparently a new crisis and they needed his expertise immediately. No matter, it wasn't like he was going to do anything important with himself on his day off. So Mycroft finished his oats, took his keys, wallet, ID, phone, and umbrella, and left for work.

It was gruelling. Some of his predictions had not gone to plan, and now was faced with an especially delicate and difficult situation. Even though it wasn't really his fault, he still felt guilty about it. He couldn't understand what had gone wrong… but he tried to focus on just cleaning up the situation as best he could. He made very strong recommendations to his superiors to not use freelancers anymore. It just seemed like they were too much of a risk, and things like this happened. In short: it was a disaster. He really didn't want to be shipped off to Georgia, and luckily, he was able to send people below him to do it instead with his instructions.

He couldn't shake the weight of the knowledge that people had died. Telling himself that he wasn't directly responsible, that things just happened and by all rights, it shouldn't have gone down like this, didn't assuage his guilt. His depressed mind liked to just grab at what it could to make him feel worse. And this particular incident had made that dark voice in his head especially powerful and convincing.

"Sir?"  
Mycroft looked up from his desk. He hadn't realised he'd lost himself in his thoughts.  
"Yes?"  
"Sir, the Lady Smallwood has given orders for you to accompany the team in Georgia immediately."  
"Why?"  
"I don't know sir. She insisted you prepare yourself now. Thank you."

Mycroft watched the young lady leave his office. He frowned. He thought he got out of the situation. But he couldn't deny orders. He wanted to at least know how long he'd be gone… and so called Lady Smallwood. She had been a valuable ally to him at work, and took a liking to him early on.

"I'm sorry Mycroft, but I need the best out there."  
"I hardly think I fit that description." Mycroft said, despite his ego enjoying the stroke.  
"You are. And while I can, and have, ordered you to do so, I would prefer to ask this of you and you accept."  
"Then why did you not simply ask before sending the message via an assistant?"  
"Would you have agreed? Considering you sent a team in your stead already?"

"Very well, I concede. May I ask how long I will be away?"  
"Until the job is done, Mycroft."  
"And which part of the operation is my job, in particular?"  
"We have reports that a member of A.G.R.A survived. You need to locate and retrieve them."  
"Is that all? I am permitted to leave once that is complete, and leave instructions to the agents remaining to smooth over this political nightmare?"  
"Yes, but may I ask why you are so eager to remain here?"  
"I am not one for legwork. I have made that clear numerous times."  
"You have, yes, but this time you are particularly hesitant."  
"… I have suspicions that my brother will be needing my assistance soon. I cannot abandon him in times of need."  
"We have talked about your brother, Mycroft. You are authorised to utilise our resources to keep a watch over him and protect him in return for your undivided attention and commitment."  
"Yes. I will be as quick as possible. Thank you." Mycroft stated, knowing he'd lost any standing he had. He hung up the call and collected his things.


	3. Losing His Purpose

Mycroft really did hate legwork. But he had just accepted that this difficulty was just fitting for his life right now. It was a lot easier to accept defeat and just take the hardship thrown at one rather than trying to fight everything in vain. From the moment he'd left his office, he was his usual detached icy self. It was the only way to remain calm, collected, and most importantly, rational. His job was one of the mind, and emotions only sought to complicate matters.

He gave orders concisely, and swiftly. He scanned the remains of the infiltration site. It was in ruins. He saw the bodies that were strewn about, not yet having been cleared away. They were broken and bloodied, the blood smearing the rubble that they lay in. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and took a deep breath through his mouth to try avoid the sharp stench of iron in the air.

He followed an exit from where the explosion occurred, all indications being that someone had been there. Of course, no one else on the team had even noticed. He followed the passage for a short distance before encountering a dark clad woman. She was alive, and relatively unscathed. Given her attire, Mycroft knew he'd found the team member that had survived. He, at least, didn't have to search through bodies to find out which one was missing.

Mycroft knew he wasn't strong enough to carry the unconscious woman alone, and so called in for his team to assist. By 'assist', he really meant 'do it all for him', so he could silently follow and watch.

She was taken to their awaiting aircraft to be assessed by the onboard doctor. Mycroft sat opposite the stretcher, and looked down at her. The guilt was overwhelming him again. He was the reason she was injured, and he was the reason her colleagues were dead. He couldn't put much blame upon her and her team for making the mistake… it was their lives that were endangered, after all. He just sat in an empty office making decisions of life and death. It wasn't often he was directly confronted with the outcome of his actions… or rather, his mistakes.

The doctor assured him that she would be fine, and that she had some bruising, a few broken ribs, and a minor concussion. Given the circumstance, she was considered lucky.

En route back to London, the agent awoke. Seeing as it was only him in the plane along with her, aside from the pilot of course, he was tasked with assuring her things would be alright. And of informing her about what had happened. He kept it professional, but he couldn't maintain his icy exterior.

"Thank you." She said to him after some silence.  
"For?"  
"For finding me."  
"Oh. You are welcome."  
"I don't mean to intrude, but it seems like you don't usually do this sort of thing. Why did they make you come and get me? Why did it even matter if I was found?"  
"You are correct, I stopped doing fieldwork some time ago. I never enjoyed it. However I am the one that made a lot of the decisions regarding this operation and so it seemed only fitting that I be the one to clean up my mess, as it were."  
"It's not your fault, you know. I can tell you're blaming yourself."  
"It is."  
"No, really. No one could know what was going to go down. Just because things don't turn out how you expect, doesn't mean it's your fault. If it were, then you wouldn't feel remorseful enough to come back and try help."

Mycroft didn't know how to respond. He did feel remorseful. And he felt like he shouldn't be the one being comforted by a woman who had just lost the three people that she trusted most in the world… because of him. He looked away.  
"I will make sure that you are assisted in your reintegration into society. It is unlikely that the government will be utilising the services of freelancers anymore… not after this."  
"Thank you."  
"No need. It's my job."  
"Yeah, but not everyone doing your job would actually care to try cause the least amount of harm, or try work for the best outcome, when things end up like this. They'd just cut their losses and move on as if nothing happened. I'm a freelancer, I've worked with those people for a long time. No one has ever cared to find me let alone help."

Mycroft nodded briefly at her, and then elected to spend the rest of the trip in silence.

The first thing Mycroft did when he was back, was ensure that the returned agent would be cared for. The second thing he did was inform Lady Smallwood that his mission had been a success, and he was going home. The third thing he did was check his phone for messages. Why he didn't do that immediately, he didn't know… but he wished he had when he saw he'd gotten a voicemail from his brother.

 _"Myc… why aren't you answering? I'm … I'm not sure what to do… I … I need your help, where are you?"_

His stomach dropped. He then rushed to see the team he'd assigned to watch Sherlock.

"What do you mean, you don't know?!" Mycroft shouted at the man before him, charged with coordinating Sherlock's surveillance.  
"Keeping an eye on your junkie brother is not my job!" He shouted back. He then regretted his decision after seeing Mycroft straighten and give him a deathly glare.

The next words out of Mycroft's mouth were in his cool, collected, deadly tone he reserved for the times he needed to be the most threatening.  
"Your job is to do as you are told. My attention is better spent protecting the country, rather than concerning myself with a task any idiot can do. Find him, or I can assure you, no one will find you."

The man shivered under Mycroft's glare, seeing the rage behind the icy blue eyes. He said nothing further, and returned to work. Mycroft promptly left the room. Yes, he was infuriated at the small team whom neglected to do their jobs, but he was mostly concerned for Sherlock. He'd been worried that a big relapse would happen, and if Sherlock was off the grid, then it likely had happened. He just had to be sure to find his little brother in time before something terrible happened.

Mycroft tried calling Sherlock, to no avail. He typed away at his computer with slightly shaking hands, trying to maintain a control over himself. He was at work, for god's sake… he had to keep it together. But the thought of Sherlock lying in a ditch somewhere dying was far too much panic to maintain beneath his icy exterior. He didn't have time to retrace Sherlock's steps from the time the team failed to monitor him. That could take hours. No, instead, the best option he could think of was to go out to Sherlock's known places.

He quickly organised a car, and began the arduous search in dubious neighbourhoods. He felt completely out of place visiting Sherlock's crack house, filled with the lowlifes one would expect to inhabit the decrepit building. But, he had his special training to defend himself, and his wit about him. He was smarter and more clear headed than most people anywhere at any given moment; and so despite the anxiety clouding his mind, he was still certainly more than well-equiped to outsmart a smattering of high junkies.

Sherlock wasn't at the first one he tried. Mycroft disliked that the 'bouncer' or whatever he called himself knew him by this stage and knew he wasn't a threat… but at least he helped him just look for his brother. The panic was starting to take a hold, since he'd still not been able to contact Sherlock and he didn't know how long he'd actually been missing. The team had decided to stop monitoring him the moment Mycroft left the country… so he could have disappeared at that instance into the drugs or it could have been merely an hour ago.

En route to the next location Mycroft believed he was likely to find Sherlock, he found himself muttering to himself.

"What am I going to do? Sherlock's my reason for being… without him… what is there? I can't do it alone… I don't want to do it alone… and without him, there's no reason to stay… no one would miss me."

Sherlock wasn't at the next place either. He was starting to lose hope that things were ok. He couldn't delude himself any more. It was then that he received a phone call. He pulled it out of his pocket so quickly that it almost was thrown to the ground. His stomach dropped when he saw that it wasn't Sherlock calling.

"Yes?" He answered.  
"Hello, is this Mycroft Holmes?"  
"Yes." Mycroft strained to get out. He didn't like where this was going.  
"I am ringing because we have you listed as next of kin for Sherlock Holmes."

Oh god… next of kin? Was he too late? Mycroft was visibly shaking at this point.

"We have him here at St Bartholomew's Hospital."  
Mycroft released his breath. He was still alive, but in hospital.  
"What is his condition?" Mycroft barked.  
"He… he is stable, now. Please, if you can come in we can explain the situation to you."

Mycroft silently listened to the instructions and then quickly informed his driver to take him there. A new wave of self hatred washed over him.  
 _He could have died and you weren't there to save him. You couldn't even find him. Someone else did, and they likely saved his life. Not you. You failed. If it were up to you, you'd be alone completely. You're already alone in your life enough… Sherlock is all you have and he doesn't even want you anymore. You are a waste of space._

Mycroft didn't even try fight against his negative self thoughts. It was all true.

Mycroft stood at the foot of his brother's bed. He was stern, but that was more directed at himself. He felt so utterly terrible. Sherlock had overdosed, and had actually almost died. The withdrawal had been rather devastating to him, and as Mycroft had anticipated, he'd slipped back to the drugs. But in his irrational mind, he'd taken more than he could handle. Mycroft knew it wasn't a suicide attempt, which had been asked of him when he walked in to the hospital. It was just his brother's failed coping. But it was his, Mycroft's, failing. He couldn't ever forgive himself for being away when his brother needed him.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock." Mycroft whispered to his brother's unconscious body.  
"You were trying to better your life and I wasn't there for you to fall back on. I'm a failure of a big brother. I thought I was looking out for you all this time but really… I've just made everything worse. If I hadn't helped you forget Eurus, if I hadn't helped you try shove emotions away… then maybe none of this would have happened."

Mycroft remained staring at his brother's lifeless form. He noticed a twitch of a muscle here at there, reassuring him that the deathly white skin was still alive. Everyone would be better without him. The people in Georgia, Sherlock, his parents… everyone. Mycroft sighed. What was even worse - for him, at least - was that it was Sherlock's new friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had found him. They owed him for saving Sherlock's life. Mycroft had immediately had respect for the man upon their first meeting, but now that ran even further. For no reason at all, this wonderful man had taken a liking to Sherlock, and was actually making a positive difference in his little brother's life. Unlike him. Sherlock stirred slightly, and Mycroft returned his focus back to him.

"Oh Sherlock… I … I can't do this anymore. I can't keep trying to be a good man doing bad things for the sake of bettering the outcome overall. You are the only importance I have in my life, brother dear, and I almost lost you. Because I wasn't there for you, like I promised you. But it's ok now… you have Lestrade. He'll look out for you, and he'll help you more than I ever could."

Mycroft hadn't realised that he'd started to say goodbye, but once he started, he found he couldn't stop. He just let the tears well in his eyes and drop down his cheek. He hadn't even realised he'd made the decision until he'd started talking.

"I know you'll be a little lost without me for a while, and maybe be a bit sad… but you have your friend to care for you. And you'll find that things will only get better once I'm not there interfering anymore. I tried my hardest to do it all for your own good but I feel like I've just screwed everything up. Maybe it was my constant attempts to help that made you act out this way in the first place. I hope one day you'll be able to forgive me and think of me fondly. Be good, brother mine. I love you."

Mycroft sniffled and stood up straight. He nodded at Sherlock, and gave him a sad, loving smile. He hadn't expected Sherlock to stir more, and then open a bleary eye at him. Mycroft was both elated and panicked. He got to see his brother awake one last time, but his intentions could be deduced - and he couldn't have that.

"Hello dear brother."  
"Mycroft. What are you doing here? Lestrade …"  
"I heard. Why, Sherlock?"  
"I… I discovered I couldn't do it on my own. I even called you to help but you weren't there."  
"No… I wasn't. I'm sorry."  
"Doesn't matter now. Lestrade was."  
"Yes."  
"I'm gonna do it properly, this time. In rehab. Get clean for good. Then I can work more cases with Lestrade."  
"I'm proud of you." Mycroft said, his voice threatening to break.

Sherlock smirked groggily, a then closed his eyes again. He was clearly still exhausted. Mycroft nodded at him, and patted his brother's foot.  
"Goodbye." He whispered and left the room.

He hadn't expected the DI to be at the reception. The man gave him a warm smile, but Mycroft tried to look away. He didn't want this stranger to see his red eyes. But, it seemed Lestrade was intent on speaking with him, and stood in front of him.

"Mycroft. Sherlock tells me you're actually his big brother… I understand the abduction a bit more now." Greg smiled.  
"Hello, Detective Inspector."

Greg could tell that Mycroft wasn't doing alright, but didn't say anything. His brother was just found on the point of death.  
"Don't worry, Mr Holmes. Sherlock's been trying to get clean, or so he said before… it'll be ok."  
"I … I don't doubt it, Lestrade. I believe things will work out for the better."  
"Yeah… just gotta get him into a proper rehab, and he'll be right as rain. He's quite brilliant, if not a bit of an arrogant prick at times… I'm sure you've noticed. Listen, I'm gonna need your number. I wanted to call you when I found him, but I didn't know how."

Mycroft nodded, noticing that the insults were said with affection. Strange indeed. He then pulled out a card, wrote his number down on it, and handed it to the man. It didn't matter if he had it anyway - it's not like he'd be around to be bothered by annoying calls for much longer.

"Take care of him, Lestrade." Mycroft stated in finality. Yes, this man would be good for his little brother. He was a little relieved that Sherlock wouldn't be alone anymore. Before he could hear the detective's answer, Mycroft moved past him and left the hospital.


	4. Leaving

He stopped by his office on the way home. He needed to make sure a few things were in order before he left for the last time. He completed any of the remaining open files that he had, and tidied up his desk. He even sorted out his computer so that his work was easy to find for the poor soul that had to go through it. He was always neat and orderly, but it was an order that made sense to him - and likely would looked chaotic for anyone else. He decided that it was courteous to fill in the paperwork for his death while he was there. He completed it, leaving only a signature remaining to fill in, before saving the file on the system in an obvious place so it would be easy to locate.

Back in his flat, Mycroft sat and stared at the wall. He felt like he should be feeling anxious, but in reality, he was just relieved. The stress of his job wasn't on him anymore because he didn't have to go back to it. The worry about Sherlock was gone because he knew he was in good hands. And there wasn't any fear of dying. He wasn't even second-guessing himself. There was no voice in his head telling him to reconsider. Saying that he was a good man that deserved a second chance… because he wasn't. Not really. And there wasn't anything to live for. He'd almost lost that one purpose he had because of his failings. No… he seemed to be in agreement with himself.

The only question that remained was how to do it. Mycroft never liked pain. He could endure it, that was for certain, but he was never able to inflict it upon himself. After the shock of seeing Eurus cutting herself died down, he'd actually been amazed that she'd been able to do it. That's why he'd asked her if she even felt pain.

He knew he couldn't cut his wrists or anywhere else to bleed to death. He just didn't have that inner strength. And he knew he couldn't do anything that involved a long time of waiting for it to happen… because he didn't want to give his mind a chance to change its mind. He didn't want it to be a public affair… and so that ruled out anything involving jumping from things. Unless perhaps a bridge at night.

Mycroft didn't know how long he sat there thinking. But by the time he'd decided on a method, it was nearing midnight. He didn't have any of the batteries or electrical equipment in the house, obviously, and so he'd need to go out and buy some. He sighed and groaned to himself, realising that he still had another day to live. But it wasn't filled with the same feelings of despair… no, in fact, it was still all very peaceful. He moved to bed without bothering about dinner, he'd missed that long ago anyway… and rested in his bed for the final time. It was actually the best night's sleep he'd gotten in a long time.

He woke to his phone ringing. He looked at the message, and saw it was work. He was supposed to go in, and they were likely not happy he wasn't there. He didn't care… at all. He just let it go to voicemail. He sat up and stretched. It was today. The last day. He preferred not to think of it as 'suicide', but rather the day his pointless life just ended. One quick jolt of electricity across his heart and it was done. All over. Quick, relatively painless, and not damaging. He was actually rather proud of his idea. And if it all failed on him, like his plans often did lately, then he could easily just try again. He'd just be zapped and then things would be fine enough to hide that he'd done anything until he tried again. Or could just try straight away. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He smiled softly to himself.

He still needed to do some tests and research before he could do it, though. So, he decided to have his final meal as a breakfast-come-lunch, and then get it over with. Since he was going to the store anyway to get his items, he might as well buy something completely indulgent and delicious. Lush chocolate cake. With whipped cream. And he could eat however much he wanted.

He was gone about an hour, in which work had tried calling him again, but he ignored it again. He returned home with a load of nine volt batteries, a soldering iron, conductive wire, a scalpel, medical tape, and a voltmeter. And his cake, of course.

He pulled up information about the necessary current required to cause fibrillation to the heart, knowing he'd need to be pretty precise with it or he'd either not do enough, or burn things up too much… or, as he discovered, could cause the muscles to paralyse briefly and then just continue working as normal. The calculations for the resistance were fairly easy, he really didn't even need to use the voltmeter. He definitely had to make incisions to insert the electrodes into, as suspected. Human skin, even wet, was a great resistor. Too much voltage was needed to break through that barrier to get the necessary current, and would just cause pointless damage to his body.

He admitted it was all fairly interesting to know. Not that that mattered now, anyway. It was a means to an end… quite literally. He enjoyed the guilt-free pleasure of devouring his cake. He tried not to think about Sherlock too much, even how his brother would have tormented him for eating the cake.  
 _No. He's said he didn't want me, he doesn't need me anymore, and anything I do just makes things worse for him. This is the right thing to do._

Mycroft began soldering the batteries into a circuit. He found out that he really didn't need as many as he thought he did. No matter. He rather enjoyed the mindless task.  
 _Should I leave a note? No… there's no point. I've said what I had to Sherlock, and it wouldn't matter what I wrote to Mummy and Father, they'll just think whatever they like._

He was ready. He looked at the crude contraption before him. It didn't look threatening. All that was left was to make the small cuts, and stick the electrodes in. He briefly wondered if he should test it first, to make sure it worked. But, really… what did it matter? If it worked, then he'd succeeded. If not, then he'd try again after fixing the problem. He just seemed unable to take that next step and actually pick up the scalpel.

Mycroft swallowed uncertainly. It was really happening. He'd just felt at peace with himself beforehand, but now, it was scary. In a few moments, he'd actually be dead.  
 _Do…do I really want this? Could things eventually change for the better? No, I have to stop second guessing myself. I've always said that. And it hasn't happened. But does that mean I should give up entirely? What if it just takes a lot more suffering to get somewhere worthwhile?_


	5. His Miracle

His phone rang. Mycroft let his head hang and sighed. Work was really insistent. He pulled it out to force the call to end, but noticed that it was from an unknown number. Unable to resist his curiosity, he answered.  
"Yes?" He said with his usual voice, but it was a lot more hoarse than normal.  
"Oh, hi, Mycroft. It's Greg, Greg Lestrade."

Mycroft frowned to himself. Why would the Inspector be calling him? Had something changed with Sherlock?

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft asked as casually as he could. He couldn't let on that something was up, and since he was speaking with a detective and not just some random person, he needed to be extra vigilant.  
"It's about Sherlock. He's ok enough to be taken out of the ward and into a rehab facility, but they won't release him into my care since you're his legal guardian."  
"Sherlock won't actually go, I've tried." Mycroft stated somewhat exasperatedly.  
"It was his idea. He asked me to oversee his rehab." Greg said proudly, but it just stabbed Mycroft in the chest further.  
"Oh. I see. Very well, you have my permission, Lestrade. In fact, I am more than willing to transfer legal rights for decisions regarding his care over to you."  
"Ah… I… that's very nice and all, thank you. But I don't want to be sole care giver to Sherlock. I barely know him, and he's not a child. He doesn't legally need a guardian, just someone to authorise things on his behalf while he's considered unable to make decisions for himself."  
"I am aware, Detective Inspector. And I am willingly giving you that authority. The is no one else I would rather take over from me."

There was a pause.  
"Take over? No, Mycroft, I'm not trying to shove you out of the picture. I just want to help. I want your help, too. I can't do this without you, I need you."

The words struck Mycroft hard. He… he was needed? Still? After everything he'd done? Could it be that he still had a purpose? Sherlock didn't want him, and he had Lestrade looking out for him now… but was his purpose now to help Lestrade help Sherlock? Maybe that's how he should have been going about it all along… not shoving himself in Sherlock's way, but providing help from his position to another that would look after him and 'give him purpose' like Sherlock had said…

"Mycroft, are you still there?"  
"Yes, sorry… I was just lost in thought."  
"That's alright. Say, do you have time to meet me at the hospital to organise some of this stuff? There's paperwork to sign and we really should have a face to face discussion to work out how this is going to work."  
"Certainly."  
"Great. Um… Sherlock's pretty antsy to get out of the ward, so could you maybe come sooner rather than later? Today if possible? I have to be back at the Yard tomorrow…"  
"Yes, of course. Give me an hour and I will be there."  
"Thank you. See you then."

Mycroft sat blinking. What had just happened? He… he was needed? Sherlock and Lestrade needed him? He couldn't quite wrap his head around how one moment he thought he wasn't wanted or required by anyone anymore because Lestrade was around… and the next, he was needed by two people. And he'd just agreed to help. Agreed to meed Lestrade at the hospital in an hour.

He eyed the equipment before him. He reached out with a shaking hand… but instead of reaching for the scalpel, he scooped up all of the items and pulled them into his arms. He stood, walked over to the cupboard, and dumped them into a container.  
"Not today…" He uttered to the box, as if telling himself it was ok… it would all still be there for him later.

Mycroft shut the cupboard door and leaned his head against it. His heart was pounding. He'd gotten so close… so very close. He honestly couldn't tell if he was relieved to still have a purpose in life, or disappointed he was obligated to stick around longer. He softly banged his head against the wood. It didn't matter. He could work that out later. Hell, he could just give helping Lestrade a go and then come back to this point when it all failed, or he wasn't needed anymore.

If there was one thing he'd always do, it was be there for Sherlock no matter how much he had to suffer doing so. He breathed deeply. As long as he was actually needed… he'd stay through all the hell and torment.

Mycroft moved to his bedroom to lie down for a while. Everything was overwhelming and he needed some time to process things. He had time, after all. But as he lay there, he could feel himself become more and more worked up. He knew he was headed for another blasted panic attack, but he had always been at a loss to stop them in their tracks. His normal control over himself never worked.

Once he'd managed to calm down again, he realised that he'd better call in to work. He didn't want to be fired now that he had to stick around longer. He simply apologised for not answering, said that he had a personal crisis to attend to, and would be spending the remainder of the day in the hospital with his brother. Management seemed to be content with that, and so he was glad they didn't ask any further questions.


	6. Moving Forward

It had taken two weeks for Mycroft to delete the paperwork for his suicide on his computer. It was comforting to know that everything was in place still while he helped Sherlock and Lestrade. But, to his surprise, he'd actually gotten a sense of pride in his work and his accomplishments regarding his brother. DI Lestrade had remained kind and considerate, and thanked him profusely for his assistance in clearing the difficulties regarding the law that would be better _omitted_ for Sherlock's sake. Mycroft still watched from the sidelines, never getting too close to Sherlock in case his brother acted out in resentment. But it was good that there was real change happening for the first time in so very long.

Change regarding Sherlock wasn't the only thing happening in his life. He'd been promoted, and so he was now in charge of almost everything. Priority Ultra. Lady Smallwood had liked his work and dedication for some time, and apparently, his achievements regarding the Georgia incident had given management the final incentive. Mycroft relished in the control he had. He never denied being a control-freak as his childhood acquaintances had often called him. It gave him an innate sense of comfort to know everything about a situation and thus be able to reasonably provide the best possible solutions. A great weight had been lifted off his shoulders in the days that followed his promotion, stress he knew he'd been carrying but thought it just a permanent problem of his work.

It was a month before Mycroft threw out the contents of the container in the cupboard. With his new status in the Government giving him relief from his previous stressed existence, he just felt like he didn't need it anymore. He continued to rationalise to himself that should he require the items again, he could simply just go out and buy them again.

Sherlock had remained clean, and was enjoying life assisting on cases. Mycroft had been able to work his brother into a loophole in the law to allow him to continue entering crime scenes. He felt proud that he was actually able to do so, and no one could question his actions.

The work he had to do was still the same; still fraught with danger, still involving loss of life, still had unavoidable collateral damage. But Mycroft felt better about it now that he was unquestioned in his reasoning and self-assured in his knowledge. And he was very glad to have control over when he was out of contact with the world, or when he had to go overseas. No more sudden unexpected trips to a foreign country or days locked away in the bowels of the building. And best of all: no more legwork.

Everything was starting to look up for Mycroft. He even decided to purchase a large house some distance form his work, still in London but in the more 'rural' areas. He figured he might as well, since he was alive and had the money to. Why not indulge himself? It was something he'd often wanted but resigned himself that he had no need for. But he was finding since his promotion, since his choice to throw away his suicide kit, he was much more willing to just do things that made him happy. Or even just comfortable. The thought remained in the back of his head that he could always just die if everything turned to shit again. However the more he let himself be happy, the less those thoughts intruded into his mind.

He kept his flat for convenience. He considered doing it up to look much like the manor, but he decided against it. That place had housed him in his darkest days, and he'd come out the better for it all. Instead, he furnished it with a few extravagant items that fitted in with the style of the flat. He made a few changes to make it look more like his office… and let himself reminisce in his new life of mystery, the puppet master in the shadows. He had the tiles on the kitchen wall removed, and left the peeling paint marks. He installed some heavy duty locks on his bedroom, and the spare room, just for his own peace of mind. He couldn't deny that something about the bulky metal really set off the atmosphere of the place.

Much to his surprise, he even outfitted the spare room with a bed. He knew Sherlock wouldn't ever use it, but it was there just in case. And, deep down, Mycroft had hoped that maybe someone special in his life would use it. He knew he'd never be able to share his bedroom with someone so quickly, and so having another option would avoid any disastrous incidents. Mycroft tried hard not to think about that real reason for doing the room up - he knew it was highly unlikely to ever happen, and thinking about finding companionship would only serve to make him feel sad and alone. But… it was there just in case.

After six months, Mycroft had buried the memory of his almost-attempt deep down in his mind. He found it better to continue as if it never happened. He was comfortable in his life, and didn't think about the back-up option of ending his life anymore. It was easier to not have the memory invade his thoughts and potentially bring him down. In truth, the incident and the emotions leading up to it had left him a stronger person. He was much more successful with his icy façade; so much so, that his code name given to him was 'Antarctica'. He was pleased. It might not be who he really was behind closed doors at home, but it was who he needed to be during the day.

He might not be truly happy, but he was comfortable. He could focus on the now, and the future, without being dragged down by the past. He used his cold detachment to successfully deal with difficult emotions and situations. And that was all he needed to keep going.


End file.
